The Sides of Every Coin
by discoveringmints
Summary: An AU where Mickey and Ian meet when Mickey's a witness in the Witness Protection Program.
1. Summary

"I don't even know your real name, do I?" It comes out more as a statement, than a question, like he had already known the answer long before they had even started.

And because it's the only tangible and real thing you can give him, you reply, "No."

* * *

An AU where Mickey and Ian meet when Mickey's a witness in the Witness Protection Program.


	2. If I Were To See Your Eyes

**If I Were To See Your Eyes**

 ** _I'd still you adore you, if I saw you again. – PAGES_**

 **Seven years later.**

It had taken a while to convince Svetlana to let you see Iggy and Mandy again.

 _"It has been many years, Mickey. It may not be the same as it was then." Always talking in code, you're certain that she is not just talking about your relationship with your siblings._

 _"They may not want to see you. Maybe they have moved on. Maybe they are with different people. Maybe New York is not the best choice."_

 _Nope. She's definitely not talking about Mandy or Iggy anymore._

 _Somewhere along the way she had inserted herself and became more than a court-appointed pain in the ass, but some de-facto sister-like pain in the ass. Neither of which you bargained for._

 _"I get it Svet. I get it, but I'm still going to go. Can you just get me a contact number?" You look at her over the counter, and can see her shake her head, and mumble some unintelligible Russian at you – something about idiots and carrots._

 _It doesn't really matter because it's been too long, and it's finally here, the freedom they had promised you._

It had taken a while but it had finally happened and now they were here, finally, the three of them, seated around the smallest table, in some corner coffee shop Mandy had wanted to meet at _._

They're talking about the time when Iggy, stoned for the first time at 11, had walked over to a nearby neighbourhood BBQ, in nothing but his Transformers underpants, with Megatron sprawled across his ass and grabbed the meat from the grill and walked back home.

"Fuck ya'll. I was hungry, and Megatron is still fuckin' cool." Iggy looks less than impressed at this family reunion turned Iggy Roast curtesy of Mandy's impeccable memory, "Fuck you Mandy, don't know how to keep your fuckin' mouth shut. Christ."

You don't remember the Megatron bit, or the part about Iggy stuffing the meat he couldn't carry into Megatron's right hand, where he didn't realize until later how hot the meat had been.

You do, however, know about the sausage shaped burn scar Iggy has on his right butt cheek, and you can't help but laugh now that you know its source.

It feels good. The laughing. The laughing with the two of them. It's like something light settles deep into your gut and replaces all of the dark and twisted anxious knots that used to sleep there.

"Mick, who's that?" Mandy's shifting her eyes, laughter suddenly stopping, to focus on something outside of the window.

You already know who it could be, who it probably is. He never looked at you lightly, it was always with a heavy, beating gaze.

And even though you know exactly who to expect, it's still slightly shocking and it rips at your nerves to be looking at him through the window. He looks kind of like a mirage, the sun outside hitting his hair at an angle that gives him this surrounding glow that makes you question whether you're really seeing him or not.

"Mickey? You ok?" Iggy, finally sensing the change in atmosphere and peering through the window over Mandy's head.

"Fuck. Ya. I gotta go – I think. I – we have to still talk – but I have to – "

You can feel your arm lift up to wave at him- can feel the heavy leaden limb fight against its desire to pound your hand into the glass to stop him from running away – which is exactly what he does when you stand.

It's possible that Mandy yells after you to call them, and it's also possible you respond by flipping her off, but you're way too focused on the tall, red head who's now running away from where he stood a few seconds ago looking at you.

You're not cut out for this shit – this running-after-some-guy-like-a-bitch shit. But here you are, running after him, not even bothering to zip up your sweater allowing the frigid December wind to course through the spaces between fabric and skin calling goose bumps to stand at attention.

"Hey! Hey, man! Ian, is that you?" You see him slow down a little, and so you run a little faster, desperate to catch up to him.

Damn him and his freakishly long legs.

You don't realize he's stopped, because suddenly you're less than two feet away from him. So close, that you can feel the sharp intake of the breath he takes.

You hadn't thought this far forward. You hadn't really thought at all, had just run towards him on instinct. And apparently you're voicing these thoughts out loud too, because he's smirking at something you've said, and you can feel yourself grow warm under his scrutiny.

He's standing right there, in front of you. It's wild and straight out of some sort of movie script. This shit wasn't supposed to happen in real life, you had never expected to see him again, after that summer, after it all.

Yet, here you are.

And here he is.

And you'd be damned if he doesn't look better than he did the last time you saw him.

* * *

 **Present day.**

"Mr. Milkovich, do you understand the conditions of this agreement?"

You had always looked young for your age – looked thirteen for your eighteenth birthday. The tattoos had been a way for you to look older.

False bravado is a heavy thing to carry around, but real bravado sinks you faster than quicksand, which you found out soon enough.

It had been your first big job. And Colin had found an old needle and some ink and though that the tattoos would help you exude some maturity.

Or intimidation. Probably more of the later.

The needle had made a _bzzzzzzzzzbuzzing_ sound as it had permanently marked up your skin. All of your brothers had tats on their knuckles already so you really couldn't imagine why getting _FUCK-U-UP_ scarred on your skin could be a bad idea.

You had been twelve.

It had been for your first big job.

So yes, you understood the conditions of the the agreement.

The judge's voice is constant and drones on in the background.

"…testimonies will help with a larger case the off of the Attorney General…incredibly important you follow the rules we've laid out for you…your own safety…success of this case…other witnesses."

These men in suits made things sound so much more complicated than it was. You were trading time behind bars, for a life behind a different name, for a life where you'd always be looking behind your back.

Fair trade, your ass. There seemed to still exist an unequal distribution of freedom in the deal you're given.

They had got you. Tricked you into thinking, this was your ticket out. A ticket to some sort of restart. Some sort of chance at a re-do.

Freedom is fickle and deceiving. It's full of promises of bright lights and clear horizons, but there's always a small man behind the curtain speaking into a megaphone, hiding the prison behind brightly colored curtains.

Or in this case, a tall Russian woman.

Her name is Svetlana. His newly court appointed pain in the ass.

You haven't even been dismissed from court when she addresses you, "You think this is easy. But do not fuck up. Or I come and fuck you up." Her accent is on the mild to heavy side, and she's smirking at your knuckles, like she's just made the world's funniest joke.

At least the judge doesn't think so. He's shaking his head, "What's she's trying to tell you, is it's advised and safest if you familiarize yourself with the particulars of your new identify as soon as possible. Mickey Milkovich has to cease to exist after you leave this courthouse. Do you understand?"

She's still quietly smirking at you, and you can feel yourself consciously rub at your knuckles, as if the ink could be removed with just a little bit of spit and pressure.

That's the thing about tattoos. They're not snap-of-the-finger, pull-of-the-trigger, jump-off-the-cliff type decisions. They're hours of under the skin pricking and pinching conscious choices.

You sit there for hours watching the decision you've made show up on your skin, saturating the cells with something dark and something permanent. It's a long drawn on process, where you at any time can pull the plug; can stop the buzzing.

That's the thing about tattoos, there's not a lot of time left over, after it all, for regret.

And this deal, this agreement, seems like another tattoo. You had had all that time waiting behind metal bars, all of that time meeting with court appointed attorneys, to stop, to pull the plug, to stop the buzzing.

But you didn't. You decided on the gamble, and on this chance at freedom that is starting to feel a little dark and a little more permanent.

"I won't fuck up. I understand the rules."


	3. Would I Drown?

Would I Drown?

 _"I wouldn't take a breath, I'd wanna drown"_ \- The Japanese House

 _(ian)_

Today is a quiet day. Even though it's not really. You let the sounds of honking and New Yorkers yelling and the slight sound of – maybe a bike bell? – glide off of you. Just chaos chasing out the chaos.

That's the trick, you've found. Just chase the clutter that builds up with chaos that's louder. Inviting the obnoxious cousin in drowns the hypomanic littler cousin out almost every time.

You feel smug about it sometimes. Especially on days like today. Like you've found a way to beat the system at its own game. _Checkmate._ _BINGO_. _Game Over._

Fuck ya.

Your notebook, stuffed in your back pocket, has a new entry from this morning. _Meds 8am. Sleep 8 hours (ish) Shower. Eggs. Want to call Ben up. Dialed and hung up twice. Going for a walk._

So you're walking. Beating the system. Or whatever.

Your phone rings somewhere deep in your pocket. You feel the vibration before you hear the ringing. When you pick up, it's Lip on the other line, "Hey. You ok?"

It's different now. You and him. Like he's shifted back into his parent suit and decided you need to be taken care of. Even settled for Columbia. Turned down a full ride at MIT.

You still haven't figured out a way to tell him that you don't need him to do this. That he doesn't need to "settle" for you.

"I'm fine. Why?"

"You told me to call you this morning. Last night. You told me to call you in the morning. Ian are you – "

Right. You did ask him to do that. "Oh. Right. Sorry. Yea, I just wanted some checking in."

"You sure. Nothing else?"

There's the part about wanting to call Ben. But you don't bring that up, you feed him an instant classic instead, "I was just thinking about Monica, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

"Ok. If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

"K. I'm late for class, but same time Friday?"

"Yup."

"You can choose the restaurant this time."

"You're going to regret that decision." That's the thing about routine. There's not a lot of room for spontaneity. So if restaurant choices are the only spontaneous thing in your routine, you're for damn sure going to have fun with it.

"Probably."

"Curry it is."

"Fuck you."

It's a daily struggle for you – your feelings about Lip. He's your brother. _I'm your best friend._ He was there during that particularly rough time almost eight months ago. He's been there. Always. And that makes it hard for you to hate him too much for it – for _always_ being there.

 _Ian, we're going to try to work on building up the number of people you allow yourself to rely on. Think of it as pyramid building. The larger the base – the stronger the structure is going to be._ Your doctor's a real fan of _imagine this_ and _imagine that_. But you can't poke too much fun. Because she's been trying – got you to write in a journal. Got you to give up weed. (For the most part)

Someone honks at you and you realize you've begun to cross while hand stopped blinking red. You welcome the noise anyways, not slowing your stride, even as the driver starts to curse out at you.

"Fuckin' idiot! Watch where you're going!"

 _"_ _Hey, watch where you're going!"_

 _He's beautiful. And you already know you're taken by him. He's older but not in the way Ned had been older. You think maybe, it was a good idea West Point never ended up working out._

 _"_ _Sorry." Did you mumble? Maybe. The light clinks off the slivers of silver scattered through his hair. Sounds like flecks of metal pinging off each other. Beautiful._

 _"_ _It's ok – hey man, are you ok?" He's looking at you now. Are his eyes silver too? Gives the phrase silver fox a completely new meaning._

 _You don't get why he's looking at you like that. You feel fine – fuck – you feel…everything. You can feel everything. Like every single particle in the universe became charged overnight and aligned with the poles in your body. You're the reason why there's a North and South pole. Magnetic fields realign to shift around your own static waves._

 _It makes your fingers tremble and your lips move too quickly. Like literally having power in your hands._

 _"_ _Hey! Did you hear me?"_

 _"_ _Sorry." That's gotta be clearer. It's always better the second time around. Leftovers are always better the second day. At least that's what Fiona used to say._

 _Usually you'd be gone by now. But you can't move. You don't want to move. Silver is a noble element. He should be able to ground you for a while. Focus the power somewhere, into something._

 _You're good at this game. The one where you slide your gaze up and down his body, slithering into subtext and hidden innuendos. He's fast to catch on – both of you soon charming snakes out of the basket._

* * *

When Lip talks, he seems to exist in more space than he can physically muster. It's always been that way with him. Between the two of you, he could charismatically charm the pants off an entire crowd, while you could make the awkward cricket choir sing.

This week it's about a girl. It's always about a girl. They find him mysterious, hard to tie down or whatever. It's just douchebaggery though. No mystery to solve, no code to crack.

Too bad for them, that it takes crying and desperation for them to realize it.

"…what about you? You doing ok man?"

No matter how much space Lip takes up, he always makes sure to leave a crack for you.

"Yeah. Good. Feeling a little… I'm just noticing I'm thinking a lot this week." It's a fine balance. Tip-toeing between paranoia and vigilance. It's an endless waiting game of needing to know what's what. Which part is you and what is the hypomania talking.

You almost bring up the idea of maybe talking to the doctor about increasing the anti-psychotics.

 _Almost_.

It used to just be mood stabilizers. But then there was that time after Ben, so it's no longer just things for stabilizing your mood. It's fish oil. It's vitamins. It's anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers. All mixed into some cocktail that works better some days than others.

It really wouldn't be that bad, if it weren't for the fuckin' side effects. Sometimes they shoot you so far past the line you were aiming for. Too much anti-psychotics means too much of a heavy weight that you can't push off. Too little is this. Questioning whether you're just having a bad day, or whether this is the first step onto a steep slide up.

So you almost bring it up, not that you had to really think too much about it, because Lip brings it up for you instead, "Do you think you need to up your dosage?"

You have this system in place. You've talked this through with doc – expand your support, have a contingency plan, know what your triggers are.

But it's weird when one of your triggers and your contingency plan are the same thing.

He's just looking out for you, afraid of what could happen if he didn't. Know what did happen when he didn't. Part of you is afraid as well. Can you be left alone to your devices? You could – you have, but doc is right, this is better. Safer. There's safety in numbers.

"No. I don't think so. I was just noticing." It's half true. You are noticing the higher pitch your laughs happen at. The speed of your thoughts when pen finally reaches paper. How much you've been thinking about running.

"Ok. If you're sure. Are you sleeping ok?"

"Yea, sort of." You let it slip out – the _sort of_ – because while you are technically spending 8 hours in bed, you spent three of those thinking of Ben last night.

"Check in tomorrow then?"

"Sure." It's all about safety in numbers.

"Also, fuck you for choosing curry. Amanda's - (Amanda's the girl of this week) - family is having me over tonight. And you just set me up for hours over the crapper."

"You're welcome."

You're careful to make sure your smile doesn't slip on too wide.

* * *

 _You're in a really clean room. A really clean room, with really big windows. This is how New York was supposed to be seen. Not from the ground, but from the sky. You don't remember coming here, but it's nice, and warm and better than the tiny couch you've been sleeping on._

 _Silver fox man – Ben – walks into the room, towel slung low on his hips. Tease._

 _You can see your gold shorts on the floor in the corner, and lines of left over powder on the table near the bed. The static is back. It always finds its way back, eventually. You can feel the pendulum begin its long swing down to the other side, where blankets are made of warm cocoons and your eyes stay closed until they are crusted over._

 _The bed bends, and you can hear him asking if you want breakfast. Want? No. Need? Probably. The pendulum swings faster now, and the blanket becomes wet with heaviness._

 _He strokes the side of your face, his eyes coming into view. "You going to be ok while I'm gone? I'll leave some stuff on the table for you."_

 _You feel yourself nod, maybe mumble something incoherent. You think he's kind and good. The stuff he's leaving you, is more of the white powder that subdues the static for not ever long enough._

 _He strokes your face once more, and then the bed bends back, and he's out the door._


	4. Is That The Galaxy I See in Your Eyes?

**Is That the Galaxy I See in Your Eyes?**

 **"** **And if souls are meant to be sold, and if hands are only to hold, then I can't do what I'm told" - Broods**

It's not bad. Where you end up. It's busier – more _rushed_ than Chicago had been. But it's not bad. The agreement is simple: become this identity. Forget about _Mickey Milkovich._ And Chicago. And Terry.

Forgetting is always easier to do when you've got something to replace the memories with. Like filling in a Connect-Four game board with circles of a different color.

Except you only have one set of colors. One set of memories. There's nothing in your arsenal that you can replace them with. Just a shitty job, at a shitty garage where it seems they've sent every ex-con for their rehabilitation.

It's a fuckin' dumb idea, if anyone were to ask you. Sticking the son of an underling for one of the most prominent Outfit bosses, in the middle of a room of ex-cons who'd probably trade in your identity for a quick trade, seems like a suicide mission to you. Fuck the FBI. It'd be safer if they had stuck you washing toilets during the night shift at some middle school in the middle of some unknown suburbia.

But nope. You get New York. And day shifts at a garage with a bunch of ex-cons. It's a fuckin' dumb idea.

Svetlana doesn't buy the "it's a fuckin' dumb idea" line though. You've tried to feed it to her, gave it your all – raised eyebrow, crossed arms and all. And, still no budging.

"It is not difficult. We settle you, and then I leave. You try any bullshit like try to contact Mandy or Iggy then we have to move you again. You do something stupid, and Terry sends somebody after you, then we must move again. Ok?"

"Ya, I got it. Don't be stupid."

"It is not difficult, these rules. But may be difficult for you."

"Fuckin –" She's smirking at you and you're about to throw it back at her, when the TV in the background is suddenly the only thing you can hear.

 _"_ _Terry Milkovich, the infamous criminal arms dealer, is currently awaiting trial on federal charges of extortion, drug and arms distribution, and multiple counts of attempted murder. Earlier this year, Milkovich, who has known ties with the Outfit, had new information develop alleging him of three counts of first degree murder, one of which was rumored to be of his late wife nearly a decade ago. It has not been made public the source of this information, or the extent of Milkovich's involvement with the Outfit. In 2011, Milkovich was last in court on alleged charges of the first degree murder of his eldest son, Colin Milkovich who was publicly linked with the Outfit. The case was dismissed on account ..."_

You don't hear much of anything after that. Hearing his name - Colin. It's been years since you've seen him. Years since he's died. Forgetting is hard to do, when you have too many of the black colored circles, and your Connect-Four board is full and overflowing.

It had been a hit. You'd known it the moment Tony had walked through the door. It had been the same look he wore when Terry had ordered the hit on Colin's girl – some local girl, someone good. Someone Colin had been crazy about. But the boss had needed a pawn and a trade had to be made. So Colin's girl had to go.

That was the worst you thought Terry could do – kill Colin's girl. You had been eleven then, Colin 19. You didn't know shit. All you knew was how much it had destroyed Colin. How he had been the one that had been the most removed from the Outfit, from Terry – until they'd got to his girl, and then it was like they owned him.

Owned him for years, until he tried to get out. Tried to do something right. Something good. And got a bullet between the eyes for it instead.

You had been eleven then, and you didn't know shit. Didn't understand why all of a sudden Colin went from being your big brother to some 1920's Chicago gangster with too much gel in his hair, to dead in his car with a bullet in his brain.

You didn't know shit. But you know shit now. Shit like what Terry did to Mandy. Shit like what Terry had done to Colin. Shit like what Terry had done to your mom.

They tell they want you to forget, like it's the easiest thing to do. But all you can see every time you try to forget are memories that you'd forgotten you still carried with you.

It is – however – very easy to forget when Svetlana's talking. And by the two very manicured fingers snapping at you, she's caught on to your daydream, "You have number for my phone. Use it in emergency only. And even when you think it is emergency – think and make sure it is emergency before calling me. We will meet again when it is time to prep you for trial. You understand?"

"Yes, I fuckin' get it."

She's mumbling some unintelligible Russian, shooting you a dirty look and is out of the café, leaving you and the news reporter "…updat(ing) the Terry Milkovich trial…" and all of your memories alone.

* * *

 _Fuck._

You don't know what compelled you to go out tonight. Except you do. You're horny, and tired, and frustrated with living in this limbo of forgetting just enough of Mickey Milkovich that you can pass for somebody else. And these bars are abundant with quick alley fucks, or bathroom blowjobs – which is exactly what you could go for.

The bar is dark, lights bright and flashing rainbows across the walls. People – men mostly – litter every corner, scantly-clad and thrusting to the beat of the music.

And one of those men is pressed up against you, his breath hot against your face.

"What's your name?" He's close. Really close. So close. You can count the stars.

When you were little, Mandy had this weird obsession with space and stars; a likely coping mechanism to deal with the certainty that their life would end in something tragic.

Dollar-save glow in the dark constellations of Cassiopeia and Orion stuck to her ceiling. Space had always just been a light switch away.

"Silent-type, hey? Ok – that's fine." He's closer to you than he was a breath ago, and you can feel the ledge of the bar press hard against your back, "I'll just have to pry it out of you."

His breath is hot against your cheek. A fire breathing dragon trying to get past the iron gates. _My name is Mickey._

Except it's not. At least not here. Not ever again. Not in this life.

"Um, name's Julian." You spit it out, the taste of the name is vile against your tongue, throwing bait for the dragon at the door. Hoping for some bought time.

Red doesn't buy it though. You can see the _knowing_ the moment you say the name. Smirks instead and juts his damn chin out, "Right … and my name is Curtis."

Sometimes in poker, you just know before turning your cards over, exactly what kind of hand you're about to get.

And sometimes, if you're lucky, you know more times than you don't. It's that _knowing_ that differentiates professional poker players from the amateurs that play in their basement for season tickets to the next game.

This guy, with his goddamn constellations and arrogant smile, would be one hell of a poker player.

Professional too, none of the amateur shit.

"Fuck off. What's it to you?" Backpedal, backpedal. Gain control of the game again.

"Well, for starters…" Curtis – or whatever-the- fuck-his-name-is has his knee pressed in between your legs, and his arms are braced on the bar on either side of you, "I'd like to know what name to call our, when I cum in your ass tonight."

 _Fuck._

Changing the speed of time is a tricky thing saved only for the truly monumental moments- the moments where you can feel your entire being take itself apart, so it can stay behind while particles of time whizz past.

And this, you'd determined, was _not_ going to be one of those moments, "you can keep your fuckin' mouth shut."

The kid's quick quipping back, "Is that a yes to me fucking you?" You're certain you can see both of the dippers on this kid's cheeks. Mandy would be proud.

"That's a come any closer, and I'll - "

Any closer and they'd light up the sky like a freakin' super nova.

"You'll what? Bash my head in? Right." He's shaking his head at you, like he knows exactly what game you're playing at. In fact, gingerfuck is pressing even closer, completely unaffected by the empty threat.

And it's a reaction, that you can only describe as one of atomic proportions. You've never been a huge fan of foreplay or public displays of affection. Terry's pistol and Russian girls made sure you never really knew about it either.

For sure none of this grinding in public shit.

It's hard though (no pun intended), to be a strong opponent of PDA when there are teeth marks beginning to bloom at the base of your neck and you're arching hard against the bar that's still being pressed against your back. Hard to be a strong opponent, when you're seconds from dropping down to your knees just to get a taste.

"So, what do you say?" Red's talking – er, growling dark – into your ear, his breath insistent and hard, "You gonna tell me to fuck off, or to get the fuck on. Which will it be?"

 _Fuck._

* * *

 **Five months ago.**

The job is stupid. Iggy and Tony are being stupid. It's like trying to rally together _dumb_ and _dumber_ to pull off a bank heist – it'd be – it **is** stupid.

But more than stupid, it's tired and old and you want out. Out of this life, out of the responsibility of knowing the things that you've seen are irreversible and damaging. Mostly, though, you need to get out before it's you he comes after next.

Of all the Milkovich clan, you're the likeliest to end up with a Terry-venom laced bullet in your head next.

The first time he caught you, you had been looking at an advertisement for some department store. For men's wear. Specifically, men's underwear. He'd caught you with your hand between your legs, a breath away from cumming hard into a sticky, warm mess.

That was the first time he had taken the pistol to your face. His violence had always been reserved for your older brothers, you'd only ever seen the wrong side of his fist a few times – but never his pistol.

But then you started paying more attention to dicks than pussy, and suddenly it was his pistol all the time. It was pistol to the face if you didn't leer hard enough at the girls he brought home for you, if he thought you stared too hard at a guy across the street.

If he caught you fucking the only publicly out guy in your grade. That had caused pistols to both of your faces. And sex with his Russian girls whenever he brought one home.

That was the worst, you had thought. That was the worst he could do. Put a hit on Colin's girl. Pistol whip you into having sex with Russian hookers. That was the worst of it.

Except it wasn't. Because then suddenly Mandy was pregnant, and you were paying for an abortion and sitting with her at the clinic while names were called out like they used to do in school.

It wasn't until you saw Terry stumble out of her room months after the abortion, that you finally put all the pieces together. It had been the last straw. The final push over the ledge.

Was it Hansel or Gretal who had made the decision to leave the bread crumbs? Who, out of the two of them had wanted out the most?

It didn't really matter, you'd reasoned. You could want it enough for the both of you.

And, so it's stupid. This job. You thought that leaving the crumb trail would have been easier, thought it would've just meant a phone call or a couple meetings with some feds who really wanted to nail Terry and the Outfit. You did not think that it would involve a wire and this job and the FBI in a parked van a block away.

But it does. And it's stupid. Mostly though because Iggy and Tony are still arguing over what weapon to bring on their run. And you're here waiting for the feds to hurry the fuck up. And you can feel Terry behind you, watching.

It's not anything new, he always watching you more than the others.

As if he's trying to sniff out the gay in you. Like he's waiting for any reason to pull out his pistol on you again. It's unnerving though, because this time you're wearing a wire, and Terry's gaze is heavy and searing. And it's like he can see the wire through your shirt.

The knock can't come any sooner – it's heavy and has the sound of authority laced in its undertones. You're frozen. This is it. This is what you've been planning and you're frozen. The knocking continues.

And then you hear it.

"Terry Milkovich! This is the FBI. Open up."


End file.
